Terry followed in his wake,
taking care to step, as nearly as possible, in the same places. But for
all that, Denver continually turned in an agony of anger and whispered
curses at the noisy clumsiness of his companion--yet to Terry it seemed
as though both of them were not making a sound.
The stairs to the second story presented a difficult climb. Denver showed
him how to walk close to the wall, for there the weight of their bodies
would act with less leverage on the boards and there would be far less
chance of causing squeaks. Even then the ascent was not noiseless. The
dry air had warped the timber sadly, and there was a continual procession
of murmurs underfoot as they stole to the top of the stairs.
To Terry, his senses growing superhumanly acute as they entered more and
more into the heart of their danger, it seemed that those whispers of the
stairs might serve to waken a hundred men out of sound sleep; in reality
they were barely audible.
In the hall a fresh danger met them. A lamp hung from the ceiling, the
flame turned down for the night. And by that uneasy light Terry made out
the face of Denver, white, strained, eager, and the little bright eyes
forever glinting back and forth.
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